


Bless Them All

by JJJunky



Category: Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:09:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new kind of bomb just might help the 918th win the war - if it doesn't kill them first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bless Them All

Bless Them All  
By JJJunky

 

General Ed Britt rested his eyes on each of the officers sitting around the conference table, wondering which seats would be empty the next time he called a meeting. Or rather, which men with similar builds and educations but different faces would fill them.

He leaned heavily on his cane. What he was about to reveal would be responsible for the changes he anticipated. Even knowing this, his resolve didn't falter. They were at war. It had to be won. To achieve this, men had to die, men under his command. Men - no boys - he had tried to stop seeing as living entities. They were machines; no different from the planes they flew.

As he lifted his hand to pull off the sheet covering the map board showing the mission's destination, he saw it was trembling. Taking a deep breath, he tried to still the betraying reaction. He had to infuse confidence in himself if he hoped to do the same for his officers.

The cover slid off, showing a red ribbon stretching from England to Romania. Groans echoed around the table even as Britt verified, "Your mission, gentlemen, is the Polesti oil fields."

"Again!"

It was unclear who had uttered the complaint, but Britt knew he couldn't allow it to go unnoticed. "Yes, gentlemen, again, because you failed to destroy it on your last two missions. And, we'll keep going back until you do. I don't need to tell you how vital oil is to the German war machine. Without it, the war could be shortened or even ended."

There wasn't another groan or protest. Each man knew the truth in the words just spoken. They would do their duty, despite their fear and despite the knowledge that their chances of returning were dangerously low.

"Colonel Coleman will lead with the 362nd," Britt relayed, not looking at the man he was certainly condemning to death.

"General," the youngest officer at the table hesitated before continuing, "the other missions merely destroyed the aboveground facilities; we barely touched the underground pipelines. Unless we can demolish them, the most we can hope to do is delay production for a few weeks or months at the most."

Britt wasn't surprised that it was Colonel Joseph Gallagher of the 918th who had been daring enough to speak up and point out the flaw in the plan. In fact, he had counted on it. "Which is why," Ed offered, "you'll be carrying a different kind of bomb." Britt nodded at an aide who began passing out pictures to each of the group commanders. "This is a delayed-action bomb. It will bury itself in the ground before exploding."

While the other officers appeared to be encouraged by the revelation, Gallagher skeptically reviewed the picture and the specifications printed at the bottom. Britt studied the much younger man. In the few months Gallagher had commanded the 918th Bomb Group; the general had learned to listen to the doubts and suggestions presented by his subordinate. The West Point graduate had an intuition far exceeding the age and experience of his contemporaries.

"Does anyone have any more questions?" Britt prompted. Once again, his eyes rested on each officer, receiving a negative reply from all but one. "Dismissed," Britt ordered, limping towards the far corner of the table and the dissenting vote.

Britt waited until the room was empty before addressing his subordinate. "Is there something else on your mind, Colonel?"

"Sir." this time, there was no hesitation in Gallagher's demeanor, "Will this be the bomb's first trial in combat?"

"In combat, yes." Britt frowned, wondering where this was leading.

"Don't you think it's a mistake to use an untested explosive on a mission of this importance, sir?"

Easing down onto the chair next to Gallagher, Britt allowed his voice to soften as a sign of support. "You said it yourself, Joe, to be successful we have to take out those pipes. The experts believe this bomb will do just that."

"And if they don't work as planned?"

"The results can't be any worse than when we used our regular bombs. They'll take out the aboveground installations and slow production."

"Which would make another mission necessary in a few months."

"Precisely."

Sliding the picture into his briefcase, Gallagher rose. "Then let's hope they work." Shoulders slumped; he took one last look at the mission board before walking away.

Britt watched the retreat, his confidence badly shaken.

 

Rain soaked his raincoat and spilled off the bill of his hat as Joe Gallagher trudged to his jeep, glad he had chosen to drive himself to Eighth Air Force Headquarters. He needed a little time to rebuild the mask that would hide his feelings from his subordinates, Sergeant Sandy Komansky, his flight engineer and Major Harvey Stovall, his Ground Exec. Both men had become a bit overprotective. At first, Joe thought it was their way of dealing with General Savage's death. But their concern showed no signs of abating, making him wonder if there wasn't another cause.

An umbrella poked him in the shoulder. Joe absently mumbled a reply to the flustered lieutenant's apology. Rain pouring over the edges of the black covering, the contrite offender hurried away to escape the elements.

Cold drops trickled down Joe's collar, plastering his shirt to his back and making him shiver. Picking up his pace, he gratefully reached his jeep and climbed behind the wheel. His finger rested on the choke with a light pressure. Though he desperately wanted to, he couldn't stay here forever. He had to return to Archbury, to his duties – to ask his men to die.

Pumping the choke, he switched on the engine and searched for the button to turn on the windshield wipers. He was surprised to realize that he was more comfortable sitting in the pilot's seat of his B-17, than in the driver's seat of a jeep. As he shifted into gear, he recognized that tomorrow he would be anything but relaxed. In the last mission to Polesti, they had lost two hundred and seventy aircraft, over two thousand men dead or captured. The new bombs could make a return visit unnecessary. But, they could do nothing about the flak and the fighters that would be waiting for them. The oil fields produced over four hundred and fifty thousand tons of crude oil per month. The Germans were as aware of the plant's importance as their enemy. They would throw everything they had at the lumbering, unprotected bombers.

A wheel dropped into a deep hole, almost wrenching the steering wheel from his hands. Softly cursing his inattention, Joe guided the vehicle to the side of the road. Pulling his collar up, he unhappily exited the jeep to see the front tire was flat. Turning the air blue, he resignedly retrieved the jack and the spare. Could his day get any worse?

A violent sneeze traveled up his chest and out of his mouth and nostrils, answering the rhetorical question. The wind picked up, driving the rain before it. Each drop that touched his flesh felt like a shard of glass. He divorced himself from the irritant and concentrated on his task. If there was one thing this war had taught him, it was how to distance himself from his feelings. Losing two brothers before the hostilities had barely begun, combined with losing an admired skipper, had trained him to bury his emotions. Once, they had threatened to destroy him and his career. He had learned his lesson. Savage had made sure he did. Though, every time he flew a mission and lost another man, it became harder and harder to remember the example the older man had set for him.

His chore completed, he tried to shake some of the water from his coat hoping to keep his seat from getting wetter. It was a futile attempt. Vowing never to drive himself again, he climbed back behind the wheel, started the engine and shifted into gear. This time, he kept his attention focused on his driving. 

The burden of his rank weighing heavily on his shoulders, he decided it would be nice if he could change his principles as easily as he had changed that tire.

 

Britt made sure the blackout curtains were closed behind him before he entered the outer office of the 918th Bomb Group. The heavy cloud cover would prevent passing aircraft from seeing any light, but weather didn't impede spies.

As he walked into the small office, Harvey Stovall immediately shot to his feet, his hand raised to his forehead. "At ease, Harvey." Britt acknowledged the salute with a wave of his hand.

Stovall relaxed, but remained standing.

Nodding towards the closed door leading to Gallagher's office, Britt inquired, "Is he in?"

"He's checking that new shipment of bombs." Harvey reached for his phone. "Should I notify him of your arrival, sir?"

With a shake of his head, Britt eased himself onto the empty chair next to the Ground Exec's desk. "No."

A puzzled gaze resting on his superior, Stovall returned to his seat. "Is there something I can help you with, General?"

"I wish you could, Harvey." Britt bit his lip. "Did Joe brief you on tomorrow's -" Checking his watch Ed corrected, "today's mission?"

Indicating the paperwork lying on his desk, Harvey reported, "I'm preparing the duty roster now."

"How many planes will you put in the air?" asked Britt, interest sparking in his eyes.

"Eighteen."

"That's more than any of the other groups," Britt praised.

Harvey stiffened, avoiding his superior's gaze. "I'm not sure that's such a good thing, sir."

This time it was Britt who couldn't look his subordinate in the eye. "How does Joe feel about it?" 

"You know the colonel, sir." A sad half-smile lifted a corner of Harvey's mouth. "He believes in maximum effort."

_No matter what it does to him mentally or physically_ , Britt silently acknowledged. "He certainly isn't the same man Frank Savage almost busted."

"No, sir," Harvey readily agreed. "This one would make any father proud."

Hiding a smile behind a quickly raised hand, Britt pressed, "Will you have enough crews to man eighteen planes?"

"As long as no one reports in sick." Harvey studied the report in front of him. "We don't have any pilots or bombardiers to spare."

Slowly rising to his feet, Britt leaned heavily on his cane. "Tell Joe he's done a good job."

"Is there anything else you wanted me to tell him, sir?" Harvey gently probed.

Hesitating, Ed shook his head. He wasn't sure himself why he had wanted to see the young group commander. A report with the information he had just received was probably already waiting on his desk. His words verbalizing a confidence he didn't feel inside, Britt said, "I'll talk to him when he gets back from the mission."

 

Though he had been officially off-duty for hours, Sergeant Sandy Komansky didn't bring that fact to his superior's attention – because he was exactly where he wanted to be, at Gallagher's side.

He had memorized the specs of the new bomb and was excited by the possibilities it offered. But they would still have to face fighters and flak. The bombs couldn't change the way they flew the mission. What they would do is keep them from going back again. That was enough for Sandy, but obviously not for Gallagher.

In the months since he had become the colonel's flight engineer, Sandy had learned to read his superior's moods. It hadn't been hard; Gallagher would never have a good poker face. Sandy just couldn't understand why the skipper obviously disapproved of the new bombs. From what he had read, the bombs were an answer to their prayers. Everyone's except Gallagher's.

Sandy reviewed the specs in his head as he studied the inanimate object. He wished he could find something that made him question the explosive's capabilities. Despite the fact that he couldn't, he would still support his superior if Gallagher decided not to use the bombs.

"Go ahead and call it a night, Sandy," Gallagher called down to him from his position in the Piccadilly Lily's bomb bay.

Komansky frowned, not only at the order he didn't want to obey, but because it was spoken in a hoarse voice. When Gallagher had returned from Pinetree, he had been soaking wet. If the skipper had a cold, they could be scrubbed from the mission. Knowing how Gallagher would hate sending his men on a mission like this one without him, Sandy knew the man would have to be half dead before he would report for sick call. "Sir --" 

"That's an order, Sergeant."

Though he wanted to disobey, Sandy knew better. Gallagher gave him a lot latitude but when he used that tone of voice, the devil himself would think twice before arguing. "Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir."

 

Lingering clouds hampering visibility, Joe battled the strong jet stream to keep his group in formation. Too far back and they wouldn't be in position for their guns to provide maximum cover against the fighters. Too close and they risked a mid-air collision.

His whole body ached with a cold he had barely managed to hide from his staff. If Dr. Kaiser had seen his red nose or heard one sneeze, he would have been grounded. Joe couldn't allow his men to fly such a dangerous mission without him. . . especially with the unknown variable presented by the new bombs. Still, perilous as it was, Joe knew there were at least two other pilots, a bombardier and a few gunners who could have been scrubbed for health reasons. They all had legitimate reasons to stay behind, yet no one wanted to. Joe often wondered if the Army Air Corps realized how special these men were.

A sneeze built up in his chest. His effort to suppress it was in vain. With a violence that almost made him put the B-17 into a dive, the sneeze escaped, filling his oxygen mask with phlegm. He wished he could remove the mask long enough to wipe his face, but he knew the moisture would freeze in place before his gloved hand could remove it.

"Are you all right, sir?" Komansky anxiously inquired.

"I've been better," Gallagher reluctantly admitted. Tapping Fowler on the shoulder, he indicated that the co-pilot should take the wheel. "How much longer to the IP?"

Checking the instruments, Komansky offered, "Twenty minutes, sir."

Joe wearily rested his head against the back of his seat. Raising his chin, he hoped the fluid in his nose would drain back into his throat rather than his mask. At this altitude, his nose would be frozen before he could get a handkerchief to wipe the gunk away.  
His right ear popped, causing him to moan softly in pain. As soon as he had pulled back on the yoke lifting the heavy bomber into the air, his ears had filled up. At times, he could barely hear until one ear or the other emptied. However, as soon as they changed even the slightest degree in altitude it would fill back up again, causing a never-ending cycle of agony. Sometimes, it felt as though someone was stabbing an ice pick in his head.

"Fighters, twelve o'clock high," the left waist gunner reported.

"Better get up into your turret, Sandy," Gallagher ordered, sitting up and replacing his hands on the yoke. "Recess is over."

Guns flashing, an ME109 dived through the narrow space separating the Piccadilly Lily from the group ahead. Tracers crisscrossed the sky, answering the deadly fire. Several of the fifty caliber slugs tore through one of the fighter's wings ripping the tip off. The plane wobbled as the pilot fought for control before disappearing from view.

Unable to alter position or speed, Gallagher was forced to watch as fighter after fighter blazed through the formation. As frightening as the scene was, Joe knew Coleman's station was worse. He had led enough missions himself to know the Luftwaffa targeted the lead planes, the most vulnerable point in the formation. It took all the strength of will a man could muster to keep flying into the teeth of death.

The Lily shuddered as bullets tore into her fuselage. Joe held his breath, hoping none would strike the highly explosive bombs in the bay. They wouldn't become armed until the bombardier released them over the target, and had enough casing to be protected from stray shots. However, Gallagher had seen more than one bomber explode into a fiery ball that could only be attributed to its load being ignited prematurely.

The gunners called out the locations of the fighters with sturdy precision. Their voices were remarkably calm as they countered the steady stream of attacks. Gallagher began to worry about ammunition. 

The planes surviving the flak that would greet them as they neared the target still faced a long journey home, Most of it over territory the Germans had claimed as their own.

"Here comes the flak." Fowler unnecessarily pointed to the small dark clouds dotting the area ahead.

The intercom crackled. "There go the fighters," Komansky reported.

Uncertain which deadly killer scared him more, Joe checked his gauges. Nothing could go wrong this time; they had to destroy those fuel dumps. He wasn't sure he could order his men to do this again. He wasn't sure he would, even if it cost him his command and his freedom.  
The huge B-17 vibrated as flak exploded under its right wing. Holding his mic to his throat, Gallagher demanded, "Damage report."

"The tip of the right wing is broken and hanging by some wires," the waist gunner relayed.

Komansky dropped out of the top turret and quickly adjusted a few of the gauges. "Everything looks good, Skipper."

"Except our right wing isn't as long as it use to be," Gallagher pointed out.

"Except for that," conceded Komansky.

Gallagher could hear the smile in his flight engineer's voice. Without verification, he knew the rest of his crew's spirits had been lifted by his small joke. He was glad he had been able to do something for them, though under the circumstances it wasn't much.

A sneeze took him by surprise. He quickly dropped his hand to end the connection with his crew but it was already too late. "Bless you's" and "Gesundheits", echoed through his headset.

Glad his oxygen mask hid the blush staining his cheeks, Joe concentrated his attention on the lead group. He could see the 362nd had lined up for its bomb run. The group directly in front of their own, the 715th, started moving into position to make their run as the first bombs began to fall.

Knowing he could do nothing to avoid the flak discharging all around him, Joe tried to keep an eye on the strike area, hoping to see the ground shielding the fuel pipes blow up in a fiery display. Instead, he saw the lead plane of the 715th fall from the sky. "Jump, George," he silently begged the pilot. Despite his entreaty no chutes appeared.

Burying the pain of the loss, Joe again tried to watch for the strike, only to be distracted as another B-17 arched to the ground. He had barely registered its demise when two more disintegrated before they could drop their bombs.

"Turning onto the IP," Fowler informed him.

After a brief glimpse at the controls Joe brought his gaze up to see two more of the big bombers disintegrate. Though he felt numb at the destruction and loss of life, he was also puzzled. While some pilots feared flak more than they did fighters, Joe wasn't one of them. Generally, by the time a cannon operator zeroed in on a bomber's altitude and speed the plane had moved out of range. Being hit by flak was more a case of chance than skill. Yet, one by one the 715th was being blown out of the sky.

Fearful the Germans had developed a new weapon, Joe kept a close eye on the Home Run, the next bomber to fly over the target. What he saw made him sick to his stomach.  
"Opening bomb bay doors," the Lily's bombardier announced.

"Negative," Gallagher hastily contradicted, turning the yoke to the right to take them off the bomb run. "Abort, do not drop bombs. I repeat, do not drop bombs."

"Sir?"

Ignoring his bombardier's uncompleted question, Joe switched his radio to connect him with the remainder of the task force. "Blue Leader to all groups, do not drop your bombs."

"That's crazy," an unidentified voice crackled across the line. "We didn't come all this way for our health."

"I repeat," Gallagher strengthened his tone, indicating his decision was not up for discussion, "do not drop your bombs. The pilot and bombardier of any plane that disobeys my order will face a court-martial."

Though Joe knew his decision had made the other pilots angry, he also hoped it would keep a majority of them alive. Continuing to ease to the right of the target, he tried to fly over an area with less flak.

Straining to get a better view of the remnants of what had been a proud group, Joe leaned forward. He could count on one hand the number of bombers left in the 715th Bomb Group. Vowing that someone's head would roll for the senseless obliteration, he shifted his shoulders to ease the tense muscles. An explosion outside his window shattered the Plexiglas and slammed him against the cockpit wall. Blinding pain shot through his head. When a black abyss opened, he gratefully fell into it.

 

"How does the number one engine look, Sandy?" Fowler inquired.

Komansky checked the gauges on the control panel before glancing out the window to make a visual check. The cold wind from the broken window made his eyes water and numbed the flesh around his oxygen mask. "It's still losing oil, Captain."

"Damn!"

The huge plane's nose dipped. Sandy quickly put his hands on the yoke to help the co-pilot pull it back up. It felt strange sitting in Gallagher's seat. When the window had exploded, Sandy had immediately dropped to the injured man's side. A cut over Gallagher's left temple had been bleeding profusely. Knowing how much head wounds bleed, Sandy hadn't been too worried; he was more concerned that three hours later Gallagher had yet to regain consciousness.

"Is the Skipper conscious yet?" Fowler asked the bombardier, apparently reading Komansky's mind.

"No, sir."

Sandy looked away, hoping to hide his fear from the co-pilot. His gaze rested on the damaged engine. "Number one is on fire, Captain."

"Feather one," Fowler ordered.

Though not a pilot, Sandy knew the controls of this plane as well as, if not better than, the men who flew her. He quickly followed the procedure for shutting down the burning engine.

"Fighters, four o'clock low," the tail gunner reported.

Fowler keyed his mic. "Wright, get into the top turret."

Even knowing he was where he was most needed, Sandy's hands itched to feel the trigger of the fifty-caliber guns, to feel the vibration as they fired, to exact revenge on those he blamed for killing many of his friends and injuring a man he had come to respect.

He shuddered, not because of the cold wind blowing through the broken window, but because of the future he envisioned for himself if Gallagher no longer led the 918th. No other commanding officer would look beyond his attitude and see his skills. He would probably end up in the stockade – or worse. There weren't too many times in his life Sandy had thought prayer would help. He did now. While he openly admitted he needed Gallagher the commanding officer, he also wasn't afraid to acknowledge he liked Gallagher, the man.

 

Britt stared unseeing at the map board with the red ribbon showing the day's target. Correction, what was supposed to be the target. Only one group had dropped its bombs. 

Preliminary reports showed little to no damage had been sustained by the facility. Forty-two bombers hadn't returned to their bases, over four hundred men dead or missing – for nothing. The 715th had sustained the greatest damage; only two of its planes had returned.

A flurry of activity in the outer office brought Ed out of his daze. He didn't need to be told who it was, he already knew. General Pritchard would demand an explanation and then heads would roll, Britt's among them.

The senior general strolled into the conference room, his stormy gaze rested on the red ribbon. "Every group that's returned has reported that Colonel Gallagher ordered them not to drop their bombs. He threatened to court-martial the pilot and the bombardier of any plane that disobeyed his orders. Is the man insane?"

A negative reply instantly jumped to Ed's lips. He forced it back. This wasn't his first war. He had seen how a man could seem perfectly sane one minute and turn into a raving lunatic the next. He would've bet the stars on his shoulder that Gallagher wouldn't have become one of those men, but honesty compelled him to admit there appeared to be no other explanation for the colonel's actions. "Gallagher hasn't returned yet, sir. Apparently the Lily sustained extensive damage and was forced to drop to the rear of the formation."

"You get out to the 918th. The minute that plane lands, I want that young man brought to my office."

Reaching for the raincoat he had learned to keep close since coming to England, Britt nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Not only is he facing a court-martial," Pritchard growled, "if he doesn't have a good explanation for his actions, I'll have him charged with murder."

Britt winced. How many life sentences would you get for killing four hundred men?

The damning words echoed around him as he was driven to Archbury. He should be as angry as his superior, but he wasn't. Maybe it was because he knew Gallagher better. He had to believe Joe would have a good reason for his actions. Ed had seen the young colonel's face when he revealed the mission's destination. There was no way in hell Joe would force another visit to Polesti.

The staff car pulled up next to Archbury's control tower. Ed could see a few planes had already landed. Climbing out, he limped up the stairs as fast as his prosthetic leg would allow. Harvey Stovall stood near the edge of the platform, binoculars pressed to his eyes. "Has the Piccadilly Lily landed?" demanded Britt.

"No, sir." Stovall straightened, but didn't lower the glasses. "She's coming in now."

A pointing finger indicated a lone bomber, barely visible in the distance. Flying low to the ground, it soon became apparent that she had lost part of one wing and most of her tail. It was hard to believe the plane was still airborne.

By the time she reached the field, all the other bombers had landed. A red flare flew high above the B-17, indicating there were wounded on board.

Ed followed Harvey down the stairs. Sliding into the back seat of his car, he pointed to Stovall's jeep which was heading towards an empty hardstand. "Follow that jeep, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

The car lurched violently as the driver hastily shifted into gear. Ed barely noticed, his attention focused on the damaged bomber rolling erratically to its hardstand. The plane had barely jerked to a stop when Britt arrived. Arms appeared through the waist gunner's position, frantically waving the medical personnel forward.

Taking a hesitant step towards the cockpit, Ed tried to stay out of the way as he waited for Gallagher to disembark. A cry of distress from Stovall drew his attention to the man the medics were helping to carry from the plane. Even covered with a blanket, Ed recognized the limp, bloody body as Gallagher's.

Dismayed, Ed shuffled closer to the ambulance. "Doctor, how is Colonel Gallagher?"

Though obviously annoyed, Kaiser looked up from his examination. "From what I can tell so far, he has a severe concussion, a broken collar bone and is in shock from loss of blood."

"I need to talk to him as soon as possible." As much as he hated himself as the words left his lips, Ed could see the doctor disliked him more.

Waving to his men to load Gallagher into the ambulance, Kaiser shook his head. "General, he may never be able to talk to you."

Britt stared in shock as the vehicle and its damaged cargo pulled away. Things couldn't end this way. Gallagher's last mission couldn't be an unmitigated failure. "Harvey." Ed caught the major's arm before he could follow the ambulance. "I want to see the Lily's co-pilot, flight engineer, and bombardier in Gallagher's office."

"Before debriefing, sir?" Stovall asked in shock.

"Before they take a piss."

Without waiting for confirmation of his order, Britt strode purposely back to his car. He knew there was a logical reason for Gallagher's orders. All Ed had to do was find it. He wouldn't allow such a brilliant career to end in dishonor.

The drive to the 918th's headquarters was much too short. Ed hadn't decided if he should call Pritchard with a preliminary report or wait until he talked with the men who would hopefully have some answers for him.

He was still unsure as he exited his car and entered the squat Quonset hut. When he reached Gallagher's office, he was struck by how much the room reflected its occupant. When Savage had been the 918th's commander, it had simply been an office with a desk and a stove. With Gallagher, the room had seemed to come alive, almost greeting those who entered as old friends. It was one of the few places in his command Ed felt welcome – until today.

Hanging up his raincoat, he took a seat behind the desk. He didn't have long to wait before three men stood at the open door. "Come in." Britt waved them inside. Noting how tired they looked, he offered, "Pull up a chair."

The officers sat in the two seats in front of the desk, while Komansky retrieved the chair from behind his own desk in the outer office.

"Thank you, General," Fowler expressed their appreciation.

"Which one of you was Gallagher's co-pilot?"

Fowler held up his hand. "I was, sir."

"Why didn't you drop your bombs, Captain?" Britt demanded without preamble.

"Colonel Gallagher ordered us not to, sir."

"I know that," Ed snapped in exasperation. "What I need to know is why."

Shifting uneasily in his chair, Fowler admitted, "I don't know, sir."

"You were sitting right next to him and you don't know?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant," Britt turned to the other officer, knowing he had to be the bombardier, "do you have an explanation for Colonel Gallagher's actions?"

Exchanging wary glances with Fowler and Komansky, Wright finally admitted, "No, sir."

"Sergeant Komansky, where were you during the bomb run?" Britt tried not to take his frustration out on the non-comm, but he knew he had failed when Komansky flinched.

"I was in the cockpit, General."

"Did you see any reason why Colonel Gallagher would abort the bomb run?"

"No, sir," Komansky reluctantly revealed. Courageously, he added, "But knowing the skipper, he had a good reason."

"Which he may never live to tell." Ignoring the pained expressions on the three men's faces, Britt growled, "You're dismissed."

As the men shuffled to the door and closed it behind them, Ed picked up the receiver to contact Pinetree. He had nothing to tell his superior, which would make for an unpleasant conversation.

 

Birds fell from the sky. Each one carried ten men on its back. Men he had killed. Joe tried to close his eyes, but he could still see them falling in his mind. Could see them dying because he had ordered them to come to this place. He had played God. He was in hell.

A bright light flashed, beckoning to him. He wanted to go to it. Something held him back. Why should he stay here? All he knew was unbearable pain.

He took a step toward the light.

 

The rubber tip of his cane squished against the cement floor. The odd sound echoed around him as Britt slowly made his way down the hospital corridor to the knot of people leaning dejectedly against the wall at the other end. Many of the men had come straight from debriefing. This was evident from their rumpled uniforms and the marks on their faces from their oxygen masks. While Ed sympathized with their fear, the war didn't stop because one man was injured. "Major Stovall."

"General?" Stovall immediately came to attention. The others quickly followed his lead.

"Major, while I empathize with your concern for Colonel Gallagher, you are the Ground Exec. The 918th's commander is injured and your Air Exec is dead, tripling your duties. Your airplanes need parts. The families of those who didn't return deserve to be notified of their demise."

"Yes, sir." Harvey took one last look at the door leading to Gallagher's room. Throwing the general a salute, he walked briskly down the corridor and out of the building.

Though their movements weren't quite as snappy, the rest dispersed. Ed felt no satisfaction at their instant obedience.

 

Sandy waited in the shadows of a tree, watching until Britt disappeared into the debriefing building. Re-entering the hospital, he returned to slouch against the wall across from Gallagher's room. He stiffened his back when Kaiser suddenly exited. The physician shook his head, before patting the sergeant on the shoulder. No words were exchanged. None needed to be. There was no change.

Leaning back against the wall, Sandy kept an eye on the outside entrance. If Britt reappeared, Sandy could step into the next room without being seen. He wasn't about to give the general the opportunity to drive him away again. At the moment, he wasn't technically disobeying orders; Britt's edict had only been directed at Stovall. 

Since becoming Gallagher's flight engineer, Sandy had made it a point not to stray far from his skipper's side. He had already lost one commanding officer he admired. He would do everything he could to keep it from happening again, even if it put his own life at risk.

His feelings towards Gallagher were still very new to him. He had become the kind of man he had once held in contempt, someone who let others dictate his life. The strange thing was, he liked this person. But it was still so different for him, he wasn't sure he would continue to take the right path without Gallagher's quiet encouragement.

He wasn't ready to solo yet.

 

The pain diminished. 

Heartened, Joe took another step toward the light.

 

Britt finally cornered a frazzled Kaiser near the nurse's station. Pritchard had not been satisfied with his report and had demanded to know more about Gallagher's situation. Since it was information Ed was also anxious to obtain, he ignored the diminutive physician's tired eyes and slouched shoulders. "What is Colonel Gallagher's status, Doctor?"

Kaiser opened a chart but never once looked at it as he relayed, "His left collar bone is broken."

"And?" Britt urged.

"And," Kaiser sighed, "he has a severe concussion." 

"How long before he regains consciousness?"

"General, Colonel Gallagher's brain was bounced around inside his skull like it was a pinball. Even if he regains consciousness, and it's a big if, there could be brain damage. It could be so acute he'll be unable to function except at the most basic level. Or, he could suffer from memory loss. It won't be the first time I've had a pilot who doesn't remember his last mission. You may never get the answers you want from him."

As he mutely listened to the litany of worst-case scenarios, Britt realized Gallagher could be facing a fate worse than death.

 

The light glowed brighter. 

Joe took another step toward it. It was harder this time. His feet felt leaden, like they were trying to hold him back.

 

Ed looked around as his car drove onto the almost deserted base. Bathed in the soft glow of the early morning sun, it looked peaceful. It was a peace that had been bought with the lives of over two hundred men. His heart ached for those who had called the ugly Quonset huts home even as his mind worked on finding the personnel and planes to rebuild the 715th Bomb Group.

The car pulled up outside headquarters. Impatient, Britt didn't wait for his driver to open the door. Hanging onto the armrest with one hand and his cane with the other, he awkwardly climbed out and crossed to the building.

There was a slight chill inside the metal structure that made Britt tighten the belt on his raincoat. Absently exchanging salutes with the group's Ground Exec, he ordered, "I want to see the pilots and the bombardiers of the two planes that returned from Polesti."

"Right away, sir." The captain scurried away.

Wishing the man had as much backbone as Harvey Stovall, Ed entered the XO's office. He tried to ignore the personal effects of an owner who would never return.

There was a sense of déjà vu when he sat behind the desk and waited for the officers to arrive. He just hoped this interview would be more productive than the one he had conducted at the 918th.

"Captain Billings, reporting as ordered, sir." A tall slim man with reddish blond hair stood at attention in the doorway.

After Britt returned the salute, the pilot stepped aside, allowing a short, squat, dark-haired man to take his place. Ed had to bite his lip to suppress a smile. The officers reminded him of Mutt and Jeff.

"Captain Wheeler, sir."

"Captain," acknowledged Britt, returning the salute.

"Lieutenant Rosenthal, sir," the next man revealed.

Britt saluted again as the last man filled the doorway, literally. Gazing at the big man in awe, Ed wondered how he fit in the nose of a B-17.

"Lieutenant Gerhast, sir."

Greeting the last arrival, Britt suggested, "Sit down, gentlemen."

"Thank you, sir," Billings answered for them.

As the men got themselves situated, Ed tried to remember the details of the files he had read prior to his appearance. Knowing the type of men they were would help him to assess their responses to his questions. All four had been highly praised by their former commander. Ed wasn't sure if that would be to Gallagher's advantage or not. "I've read your reports regarding the last mission. Now, I would like to hear your opinion of the operation."

"It was a snafu, sir," Billings unhesitatingly offered.

The Army slang for "Situation Normal All Fucked Up", was an apt description for the mission, Britt silently agreed.

"Our guys died trying to take out those oil fields and what does Gallagher do?" Billings sneered. "He leads the rest of the group around the worst of the flak, doesn't even bother to drop his bombs, and won't let anyone else."

"I would be surprised if Hitler doesn't give him the Iron Cross," Wheeler bitterly added.

Ed winced. He had hoped to find justification for Gallagher's actions. Instead, he found condemnation and more fuel for Pritchard's fire. "Can any of you provide any reason why Colonel Gallagher would act as he did?"

"There is nothing that can justify cowardice," Wheeler growled. "I sure would like to get my hands on him."

"Colonel Gallagher is still your superior officer," Britt admonished.

"Have you talked to him, General?" Rosenthal asked, biting his lip. "Did he tell you why he aborted the mission?"

Studying his hands, Britt revealed, "Colonel Gallagher sustained a severe head wound right after he gave the order to stop the bombing. He hasn't regain consciousness."

"I hope the son-of-a-bitch dies," Billings hissed.

Barely containing his rage, and disappointed that the debriefing hadn't unearthed anything to vindicate Gallagher, Britt exhaled noisily. "You're dismissed, gentlemen."

 

The light was so bright it nearly blinded him. 

It pierced his eyes, drilling into his skull. The pain almost debilitated him. 

Surprised by the sudden reversal, Joe took a step back. The weights on his feet seemed to have disappeared, making it easier for him to move. 

He stopped, torn, wondering which way to go.

 

Sandy rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tired, aching muscles. He had always been an active person, rarely staying in one place for long. His basic nature had changed when he found himself in the Army Air Force assigned as a flight engineer to a B-17. Even if there had been room to fidget in the cramped quarters of the top turret or the cockpit, he wouldn't have had the stamina. Cold and fear drained every ounce of energy from his system.

His legs aching from his long vigil, Sandy tried to hide his weakness when Dr. Kaiser appeared. He didn't want to be banished from his post.

Checking the chart in his hand, Kaiser paused in the doorway to the small room Gallagher had been moved to when it became obvious he wouldn't immediately regain consciousness. What he read caused the doctor's shoulders to slump.

Fighting back the tears swamping his eyes and the nausea twisting his empty stomach, Sandy whispered, "Doc?"

"His blood pressure is falling but his pupils are equal. He's showing signs of decreased reflexes and possible organ failure."

The lump in Sandy's throat barely allowed words to escape. "What does that mean?"

Sighing heavily, Kaiser admitted, "It means he's dying."

Sandy's hands clenched at his side. Where he grew up, problems were solved with fists, guts, and ingenuity. This was the first time in his life he didn't know how to fight an opponent.

"Come in." Kaiser indicated Komansky should enter Gallagher's room ahead of him.

Hesitantly, surprised by his own reluctance, Sandy obeyed. When he saw his superior's pale, lifeless form he almost turned and ran away. The only color on the pasty face above the white sheets was a bruise around the laceration on the left side of Gallagher's head.

"Talk to him," Kaiser advised, putting a chair next to the bed.

Komansky stared at the physician in disbelief. "What?"

"Talk to him," Kaiser repeated.

"He's unconscious."

"I'm not so sure that means he can't hear us."

"What would I say?"

"I'll leave that up to you." Kaiser's sad gaze rested on his patient. "Good luck, son."

Dismay filled Sandy when he suddenly found himself alone with his injured commander. It was the one place he had longed to be all night, and the one place that scared him more than an ME109 or flak. 

Gingerly taking the seat, he wracked his brain searching for something to say. "General Britt had me and Captain Fowler and Lieutenant Wright in your office trying to find out why ya aborted the bomb run. Ya gotta wake up, Skipper. Ya gotta tell him why ya done what ya done."

 

Joe hadn't realized how quiet it was until his tranquility was shattered by a distant voice. He tried to hear what was being said, but the words were muffled, almost as though the speaker's mouth was covered. Joe waited for someone to respond. When the person droned on and on without a reply, he became curious.

And took a step toward the voice.

 

Britt stood outside his office, loath to enter. He knew who was waiting for him inside and he knew how his superior would react to his report. He was tempted to run away. But such an action wouldn't supply him with the facts he needed. It would only infuriate Pritchard more.

Knocking on the door to warn the occupant of his presence, he entered. The scowl that greeted him told him the general was as unhappy now as he had been at their last meeting.

"Well?"

Without preamble, Britt confessed, "I talked to Gallagher's crew and the surviving crews of the 715th --"

"And?"

"They don't know why Gallagher aborted the mission."

"Did you try to talk to Gallagher?"

"He's still unconscious." Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ed reported, "Dr. Kaiser doesn't expect him to make it."

Crossing to the window, Pritchard stared at the gardens below. "Watching all those planes go down in front of him must have been hard for the boy. Do you think it made him crack? Is that why he aborted?"

Ed's immediate response was a firm no, but he bit it back. Remembering how tired Gallagher looked at the mission briefing; how discouraged he had been when he discovered the target; how skeptical he was of the new bombs, Ed had to concede it was a possibility. "I don't know, sir."

"So far," Pritchard offered, "I've been able to keep this from the press. If it ever gets out, not only will it kill morale, it'll make our own allies question our effectiveness. For everyone's sake there can't be any leaks."

"I understand, sir."

"It might be better if Gallagher did die. Bringing him up on charges will cause some questions to be asked that we don't want to answer."

Britt was glad Pritchard still had his back to the room. It was difficult to hide his shock at the callous words. He felt sick as he agreed, "Yes, sir."

 

He still couldn't distinguish the words, but Joe recognized the voice speaking them – Komansky. Hoarseness had crept into the voice, making Joe worried. With a last wistful glance at the beckoning light, Joe took another step towards the droning sound.

 

"When I was in seventh grade," Komansky huskily related, "our teacher would give a piece of gum to those who spelled every word right on the Friday spelling test. I figured I weren't never gonna get them all right, so I weren't never gonna get a piece of gum. One morning, before she came in, I stole her stash. She never said nothin' about it. I figured I got away with it. I stole it a couple more times until one day, I actually got one hundred on the test. Seemed like the stick of gum I got that day tasted sweeter than any that I took. I never stole again." 

By the time he finished his latest story, Sandy's throat was so raw it felt like it was on fire. He sipped the tepid water left for an oblivious Gallagher. As it quenched the flames, he desperately searched for something to say. It seemed like he had already told his entire life story.

Many times, he had been tempted to give up, certain his words were having no effect on his injured superior. He felt foolish talking to a man who was unconscious. But he was desperate; he would do anything to save Gallagher. The skipper had been the first person to see behind the façade Komansky had erected around his emotions. At first, Sandy had been angry and scared, now he was grateful. He could be himself with no excuses and no explanations necessary.

A soft moan brought Sandy's attention back to Gallagher. Wondering if he was only hearing what he wanted to hear, he held his breath waiting for the sound to be repeated.

When it was, he was out of his chair before the groan faded. Crossing to the door, he threw it open and stuck his head out, searching for a doctor or nurse, anyone who could help him. An orderly exited the room to his right. Surprised to hear how raspy his voice was, Sandy croaked, "Get Doc Kaiser."

Without waiting for an acknowledgement to his request, Sandy released the door and returned to his seat next to Gallagher. He continued to talk though he didn't know what words were coming out of his mouth.

"What's wrong, Sergeant?" Kaiser's demand preceded his entrance.

Moving back to give the physician access to his patient, Komansky explained, "He moaned, Doc."

Kaiser lifted the eyelids on both eyes, checked the pulse and the heartbeat. Looping the stethoscope around his neck, he shook his head. "I'll be damned! I think he's regaining consciousness."

Though it was a prognosis he had been praying to hear, Sandy found himself emotionally unable to believe it. Needing privacy to deal with the various emotions fighting for dominance, he said, "I'll let Major Stovall know the colonel's gonna be OK."

"I didn't say Joe was going to be all right," Kaiser corrected. "I said he was regaining consciousness. There could still be brain damage."

Sandy dashed out of the room on legs that could barely support him. His stomach growled, making him wonder how long he had sat at Gallagher's bedside. Long enough to miss a few meals if his hollow belly was any indication. 

Long enough to have aided Gallagher's return to a world he might no longer understand.

 

Anyone watching General Ed Britt limp down the hospital corridor would've been surprised at how little his wooden leg slowed his progress. Sleep had been almost non-existent in the last week, since the latest mission to Polesti had been laid in his lap. It wasn't possible any longer for him to hide his emotions.

Rushing through the door into Gallagher's room, Ed wasn't surprised to find Stovall, Komansky, and Kaiser already circling the bed. "Doctor, can I talk to him?"

Kaiser shook his head. "So far, he hasn't shown any sign of awareness."

"Does that mean there's brain damage?"

Shrugging, Kaiser admitted, "We know very little about that organ, General. He took a pretty hard whack; he could just be having trouble figuring out what's going on."

"What do we do to help him?" Ed rested his eyes on the young group commander. He didn't care if Gallagher couldn't explain his actions. He just didn't want to lose another good man for no apparent reason. They had lost too many good men over those oil fields already.

"Talking to him seems to have helped," Kaiser decided. "Give it a try, Sergeant. He responded to you once, he might again."

"Me?" Komansky stared at the physician in horror. "I wouldn't know what to say, sir. Maybe Major Stovall --"

"Why don't you tell him what happened over Polesti?" Harvey suggested.

Kaiser nodded agreement. "Give it a try, Sergeant."

Though discouraged, Britt approved of the doctor's plan. He only half listened as the embarrassed non-comm relayed the events leading up to Gallagher's injury. It was a report Ed already knew by heart.

" ...Flak hit the cockpit," Komansky finished, "and you've been unconscious ever since, Skipper."

"Not ... flak."

It took Britt a few seconds to realize the contradiction had issued from Gallagher's lips. Pushing Komansky aside, Ed moved closer to the bed. "Joe, what do you mean it wasn't flak?"

"Own ... bombs."

Regarding the injured man in confusion, Ed gently reminded, "You didn't drop your bombs, Joe."

"Not…ours. 715th. Bombs…exploded…too soon." Bruised eyelids fluttered as they fought to stay open.

Horrified, Ed gasped, "Is that what you saw? Our own bombs destroying the 715th?"

"Yes."

"That's why you aborted the mission."

"Yes."

Shocked by the revelation, Ed dropped into the chair next to the bed. Though he was relieved to discover Gallagher's actions hadn't resulted from a disoriented mind, the waste appalled him. They - he - had been responsible for killing over four hundred men. And he had sat back and done nothing when Pritchard offered Gallagher as a sacrificial lamb. The man who had saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives would not be the scapegoat to appease the powers that be. Britt would see to it, even if it cost him his stars.

 

Though he was bored, Joe knew better than to move his head or read the book Harvey had left for him on his nightstand. He was starting to feel alive again. The pain was all but gone, as long as he didn't turn his head or try to use his left arm. The doctor had told him his brain had been badly bruised, which was causing his headaches. The tentative prognosis was for a full recovery – in time. It couldn't happen soon enough as far as Joe was concerned.

He fought to suppress a sneeze, knowing it would re-ignite the agony of his injuries. Right now, his greatest enemy was the head cold that continued to linger, despite Kaiser's best efforts to treat it.

"How are you feeling, Skipper?"

Joe didn't need to turn his head to identify his visitor. The voice was the same one that had called him back from the light. Although he would never know for certain, he felt sure it had saved his life. "Not too bad so long as I don't move, sneeze or cough."

Sandy winced. "I'm sorry, sir."

"For what?" Honestly puzzled, Gallagher wished he could see Komansky's face.

"I went over and over the specs for those bombs. I should've known they would explode too soon."

During an earlier visit from General Britt, Joe had learned that even the developers of the bomb had been surprised by its performance. Unwilling to accept Gallagher's conclusions, tests had been run, resulting in another downed B-17. The only consolation was it hadn't been carrying a full crew. "The experts didn't know, why would you think you should?"

"Somebody should've known."

Gallagher could hear the frustration in his sergeant's voice. It was a duplicate of his own when he had asked Britt the same question.

"Four hundred guys died because of a miscalculation?"

"It's a war, Sandy. Men have died for less."

"It ain't right."

A soft sigh displayed Gallagher's own frustration and exhaustion. "No, it isn't. We can't bring them back. It sounds trite, but it's true. All we can do is win this war so their deaths won't have been in vain."

"Do ya ever feel like we're fighting one war and the brass is fighting another?" Sandy tentatively asked.

Joe wished he could do more than put a reassuring note in his voice. "All the time."

The weight of a comforting hand rested on Gallagher's shoulder for a brief second. "Ya better get some rest, Skipper."

Though barely able to keep his eyes open, Joe was enjoying the exchange, certain his relationship with Komansky had shifted, bringing them closer. "Sandy, did you really steal bubble gum from your seventh grade teacher?"

 

FORTRESS LEAVING BOMBAY  
(Tune: Bless Them All)  
They say there's a Fortress just leaving Calais bound for the Limey shore.  
It's heavy laden with petrified men and stiffs who are laid on the floor.  
There's many a Heinkel made many a pass, I saw many a Messerschmitt fall.  
They shot off our bolics, shot up our hydraulic, but cheer up my lads, Bless 'em all!  
Chorus: Bless 'em all, bless 'em all, the long and the short and the tall.  
Bless all the blondies and all the brunettes, each airman is happy  
to take what he gets, so we're giving the eye to the all.  
To those who attract and appall, each Sally and Susie you can't be  
too choosy, so cheer up my lads, Bless them all! (Chorus)  
The cloud was eleven-tenths right on the deck, and tried bloody hard to be more.  
They dug up a windmill and six thatch-roofed shacks, when they tracked us back to landfall.  
There'll be no promotions this side of the ocean, so cheer up my lads, Bless 'em all. Chorus)


End file.
